Cray's King's Quest Companion
by crayauchtin
Summary: A re-novelization of the King's Quest games created by Sierra On-line, originally novelized in an official capacity by Peter Spear in several editions of the King's Quest Companion. This adaption includes the fan content created since then.
1. Prologue

**King's Quest - Prologue**

Granthithor gazed at his king. The war had carried on for the young knight's entire life - hundreds of years before his birth it had started. A terrible war between two immortal brothers who had godlike powers. The last battle had been particularly devastating - only a few had survived. The destruction was such that even the fairies of the Old Wood could feel it, and the wailing of their grief could be heard for miles around their forested kingdom. The cost, it seemed, was too much for King Legenimor as well.

"Such power as mine cannot be destroyed," the king continued, gazing at his reflection in the mirror on the wall, "But it must not exist within a single man."

"Without it, what will become of you?" Granthithor asked.

Legenimor shook his head. "I have caused enough death in this world. It is my time now, before more suffer on my behalf. Morgeilen will try again."

"He isn't dead?" Granthithor was shocked. The magical blast that Legenimor had loosed had wiped life from nearly every corner of the battlefield. So much life had been lost, it was being said, that the whole world felt it and the fairies of the Old Woods had wept. Even an immortal wizard such as Morgeilen should not have survived.

"There was no corpse," Legenimor said quietly, "I trust only my eyes. And you, of course. That is why you will be my heir, Sir Granthithor. Now, please, excuse me. I must prepare myself. Collect what you wish from the spoils on the table and wait for my summons tomorrow."

"My liege, surely you don't believe that-" the knight began, before he was cut off by his lord's rapid exit from the room. Granthithor stared at the circular table that his Majesty had spoken of. He had no love of gold or riches, only of his kingdom and his family. His only desire was to urge the king to reconsider... but he knew Legenimor well enough to know that there was no changing his mind once he had made a decision. He gazed at the treasures - useless to him, gold, gems, a shield smaller than his own, a sword that would likely have been enticing in happier times. The hapless heir sighed and turned away. His wife awaited him at home - that was all the treasure he would need.

The First Knight of Daventry had not slept during the night. When morning came he awaited his summons from the king. When, finally, a messenger arrived to give him word of the king's wish to see him, Granthithor readily mounted his noble horse and galloped to the castle.

Strangely, he was told to wait outside the throne room before his audience. "The ritual is under way," a court mage mournfully told the knight. Obediently, Granthithor sat on a stone bench outside the throne room. Like all else who knew what was about to transpire, Granthithor was ill-at-ease. Legenimor was a good and noble king, how could any mortal fill the shoes he would leave behind?

Lost in thought, Granthithor barely noticed the three flashes of light that broke through the crack under the throne room doors. The ritual must have caused the light, he reasoned, standing. Then, without warning, a powerful wind from inside the closed room blew open the doors and nearly bowled over the waiting knight.

When he turned his gaze back towards the throne room, he saw his king - glowing. He ascended to his throne, sat, and then beckoned for his knight. Granthithor swallowed hard, as though that would help remove his unspoken misgivings. It was too late now.

Legenimor, despite his heavenly glow, was clearly weak. It seemed as though the glow was fading with his life. His breathing was becoming shallower as well. His appointed heir rushed to his side. "I go now to my rest, Granthithor," the king said weakly, "At long last, there will be peace. I give my crown to you, for it must be given." He reached a hand out to the knight, who met his grasp with his own hand.

"I will keep your kingdom strong and noble," Granthithor vowed. Legenimor smiled knowingly, and then breathed his last. The glow seemed to fade upwards as it melted away, as though it disappeared into the crown. Tears welled in the eyes of the new king. It was not only his lord who had passed, but also his friend.

"Rise from your knees, King of Daventry," a wizard said. He had stood quietly by the treasure-laden table during the former exchange, along with the others involved in the ritual. "There will be time to mourn, but first..."

As if to finish the sentence, the mirror on the wall began to sparkle and then, it spoke. The voice echoed unnaturally throughout the room. "Hail, King Granthithor Daventry. The gifts of Legenimor are many fold, but do not come without a price. For all must be protected, lest it be lost to evil and chaos. Every ten thousand years the gateway unlocks, but the key must still be given to a foe for darkness to reign. Guard yourself with shield, reflect upon your own wisdom, and let your nobility glitter as gold in the sun. These protect you, let your crown protect them."

Granthithor gaped at the mirror. The mages and wizards in the room seemed unanimously less-than surprised. "Has this mirror spoken before? I could have sworn it was a normal mirror yesterday."


	2. Book 1: The Wizard & The Princess Ch 1

**Book 1: The Wizard & the Princess**

_Chapter 1: Wanderlust_

Millenia passed from the crowning of Granthithor. In that time, the world continued as it had. Though evil rose, it seldom seemed as though it would overcome the goodness of the world. Wars were waged, but in the end always gave way to peace. As the ages continued on, it seemed, the darkness came more frequently... and with the darkness, an age of Heroes began.

The Wanderer was one such adventurer. His name, long forgotten in the legends of his own time, became renown. And it was due to this reputation that the brutish barbarian Kenneth the Huge sought out wayfarer. "I am tired of brawn," he announced in such eloquence that it was surprising from a fur-clad warrior such as himself, "Behind me is a path of bloodshed. Let me leave it behind and become as you are - brave, but smart."

The Wanderer agreed without any hesitation. He knew that Kenneth would far surpass his own heroism, for the Wanderer saw many things that were hidden from the rest of the world. And so, the two journeyed together for many years. Eventually, their path took them to the kingdom of Serenia, into the Endless Desert there.

Kenneth, much hardier and younger than the Wanderer, was faring much better. The sun beat down on them, drawing the water out of their bodies as they strode across the dunes. "There is an oasis not far from here," the Wanderer pointed out to his companion as the stumbled through the sand, exhausted and dehydrated, "You will make it if you hurry."

"What about you?" Kenneth asked, startled, "Where are you hurrying?"

The Wanderer smiled gently. "It will soon be your time. Wanderers are forged in the desert's heat."

Fear flitted across the barbarian's face as understanding came to him. They had come to this place because the Wanderer was preparing to die - there was no quest to be had in this desolate area. "But... I am not ready!" Kenneth argued, "I cannot fill your shoes!"

The Wanderer coughed, the sand that blew around them combined with his waning strength was making it hard to breath. "You need only fill your own. Now, go. Drink, and leave this arid place. Good-bye, dear friend."

"Farewell." Obediently, Kenneth turned and headed in the direction of the oasis. He was too dry to weep, though he wished he could. The Wanderer had befriended a barbarian of fearsome reputation without any hesitation or question. Now, he expected that same man to become the Wanderer? Being alone in the world would be misery enough, without the added pressure of carrying on the legendary namesake.

Kenneth reached the oasis and knelt at it, drinking the water greedily. His thirst quenched, he began to cry. The tears rolled down his face, dropping from his cheeks and splashing into the surface of the oasis. The mirror-like surface rippled with each tiny tear. As night fell, the barbarian regained control of his emotions. The Wanderer had never steered him wrong before - why would he this time? The idea was absurd. His judgement should be trusted. In the morning, he would leave the desert as the new Wanderer.

Kenneth the Huge had reached the village of Serenia by midafternoon the next day. He was surprised to see a large crowd gathered in the middle of the main street. Despite his grief, he felt compelled to draw near to the crowd. The Wanderer would have investigated, certainly. And now he was the Wanderer, it was his obligation to fulfill even if he was beset with sadness.

The town crier was about to make a pronouncement of some kind. The timing was too perfect to be anything less then Fate. "Hear ye, hear ye! His Majesty, King George IV, has suffered a terrible loss this very day! The fair Princess Priscilla, our king's only daughter, has been stolen by the mad wizard Harlin the Malevolent!" A fearful whisper rushed through the crowd in a wave. Kenneth could tell this was not the first evil act this mage had been responsible for. His reputation was as powerful as any magic he might wield. "His Majesty offers half his kingdom to any who travel beyond the Great Mountains to Harlin's island and rescue our dear princess!"

Kenneth the Wanderer stepped forward. "In which direction do the Great Mountains lie from this village?" he asked. This, he reasoned, had to be the quest that the first Wanderer knew was coming. The quest that would prove his resourcefulness and heroism. The quest he had to undertake alone.

"Who are you?" a villager shouted.

"I am the Wanderer."


End file.
